


And the band played on

by AnythingButPink



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Eventual Smut, First Kiss, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter from home opens some unexpected doors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the band played on

Bodie was making his way through the crush of shoppers, using a combination of charm and well-placed shoulders. Kensington High Street on the last Saturday before Christmas wasn't his idea of a good time, but it stood between him and his rendezvous, and therefore had to be navigated. ****

The crowds had thinned somewhat by the time he reached the wrought iron gates of Holland Park. The breeze was barely stirring the few leaves clinging stubbornly to the trees, but what it lacked in strength, it made up for in its razor-sharp, chill-you-to-the-bone edge. It also carried the melancholic sound of a Sally Army band to Bodie's ears.

He checked his watch and sighed. Doyle was even later than he was. He gazed through the gates and along the tree-lined avenue to the brass band and the crowd that had accumulated around it. Among the dog walkers, Christmas shoppers and families he caught a glimpse of familiar brown curls and red tartan scarf. Cursing beneath his breath, Bodie made his way through a side gate and towards the music.

The mournful strains of Danny Boy glided on the icy air and he wondered why they didn't play something more festive to loosen the listeners' grip on their change and encourage it into the collecting tins.

The failing light and the bitter chill were starting to peel away the audience and Doyle was now clearly visible at the edge of the group; shoulders hunched in that ugly oatmeal-coloured jacket of his, hands shoved deep into the pockets.

Bodie slowed his approach and softened his steps so he could sneak right up to his partner's back and mutter in his ear, “What time d'you call this?”

He took a smart step back, anticipating a physical assault, as well as a verbal one, and felt a stone drop into his gut when Doyle turned to face him, tears rolling freely down his face.

He moved closer to his partner. “What's happened?”

Doyle shook his head sadly and fumbled in his pockets, becoming increasingly impatient as he failed to find what he was looking for. Bodie reached into his own pocket and offered a neatly ironed and folded handkerchief.

Doyle hesitated.

“Take it, you berk,” said Bodie. “It _is_ clean.”

“Thanks.” Doyle's voice was a broken whisper, inaudible above the music, but Bodie heard it anyway – on that special frequency which had saved their bacon on more occasions than he could count.

Doyle wiped away his tears and threw a questioning glance at Bodie.

Bodie rolled his eyes. “Get on with it.”

Doyle blew his nose and shoved the hankie into a pocket.

Bodie clapped an arm around his partner's shoulders and started steering him away from the band. “Come on, I'll buy you a drink and you can tell Uncle Bodie all about it.”

As they walked back towards the bustle of the high street, the band segued into Silent Night and Doyle quietly gulped down a small sob.

***

The first pub they had found was closed because a large section of ceiling had collapsed into the saloon bar. The second one was heaving with protestors. It wasn't clear what their cause was, but they had at least stacked their placards very neatly against the wall.

Bodie grimaced at the sight of them. “You might as well come back to mine. We can pick up fish and chips on the way.”

***

Doyle didn't know what Bodie had done to upset the woman who allocated housing to CI5's agents – though he could hazard a guess – but his partner was paying for it dearly. The kitchen in his latest flat was tiny. He and Bodie sat facing each other across a small square table, knees bumping as they fished hot chips straight from the paper wrappers with their fingers.

Doyle studied the remaining chips in front of him, pulled a face and leaned back in his chair, sucking the worst of the grease, salt and vinegar from his fingers.

“You done with them?”

Doyle shook his head in disbelief.

“Yeah, my arteries are sufficiently clogged with cholesterol for this year and half of the next one.”

Bodie grinned and tipped the leftovers into his own wrapper.

“Bloody gannet.”

“I'm a growing boy. Gotta keep my strength up.”

“Oh yeah? What's her name?”

“Pamela,” lied Bodie.

“Well, I'd better not keep you from her,” said Doyle, swivelling to squeeze out of his chair.

“Oi, you haven't had that drink yet,” said Bodie, catching Doyle's wrist and pulling him back. “I'm a man of my word, you know.”

A pair of sceptical eyebrows hoicked themselves heavenwards.

“Well, don't blame me if Pamela gives you the heave-ho for being late.”

Bodie wrinkled his nose. “Nah, you're all right. She's gone down to Devon for a big family gathering.” He rocked his chair back on to two legs and leaned over to collect two cans of lager from the worktop.

Doyle scrunched up his wrapper to make room on the table for the beer.

“So, what was all that about earlier?” said Bodie, levering the ring pull on his can and dropping it on to the tabletop.

Doyle waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, it was nothing.”

Bodie leaned forward, planting his elbows in the little space left on his side of the table. “Ray...”

Doyle glared across the table. “It's personal, okay?”

“And?”

Doyle breathed a heavy sigh, opened his drink and took a long swig of the lager.

“How often do we talk about family?”

Bodie screwed up his face in concentration. “Once. After Mayli.”

“Right,” said Doyle emphatically.

Bodie sipped his lager and waited. He could hear one of Doyle's righteous speeches brewing, and while they were usually a ball-ache to listen to, this one had the potential to be quite enlightening. There was no way he was going to attempt to derail him this time.

Doyle picked up the thread of the post-Mayli conversation as if it had happened minutes before, not months ago. “After I got out of hospital I went home to pack my gear. Dad was in the pub of course. Me mum pushed twenty quid and a scrap of paper with an address on it into me hand, gave me a hug and a kiss and told me to take care.

“I wanted to talk to her, but Dad blundered in through the front door and I had to scarper out the back. I hitched across to Keighley, found the address and knocked on the front door. My grandad took me in and looked after me until I left home for art college.

“He was a good man, Bodie. He taught me to question everything, examine everything. He was a champion for the underdog and a firm believer that one man can make a difference in the world.”

Bodie smiled. “That's where you get it from then?”

Doyle tilted his head in acknowledgement. “He also loved a brass band. He'd drag me away from my Stones and Kinks albums to listen to the local colliery bands, and I went because I loved him.”

He took another slug of drink, tapping his thumb against the can before setting it back on the table.

“This came from me mum this morning,” he said, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a small envelope. He offered it to Bodie, who swiftly wiped his greasy fingers on a tea towel before taking it.

He pulled out the single sheet of writing paper, unfolded it carefully and read the short note.

“Oh, Ray...” A broken sigh escaped his lips. “I'm so sorry. Has the Cow given you time off for the funeral?”

Doyle blinked at him and furrowed his brow. “I haven't asked. I'm not ready to face my dad, not even for this.”

He stiffened defensively as he heard his own words, ready for the ribbing he was sure he deserved – the big bad CI5 man scared of an old drunkard – but Bodie just folded the letter away with care and handed it back.

“I could come with you.”

More blinking. Bodie found it rather endearing, but didn't think his partner would appreciate the sentiment right now. Or any other time, but Bodie had long since reconciled his fantasies with practicalities and took what little he could could get away with – a pinch of arse, a bump of shoulders, a ruffle of hair...

“Thanks,” said Doyle, slipping the envelope into a pocket, “but you'd only get tarred with the same brush.”

Bodie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Doyle chewed his lip for a long moment before speaking. “He thinks I'm queer. That's why he gave me that beating. I turn up with you and he'll leap to the same conclusions all over again. Probably punch both of us into Grandad's grave.”

Bodie felt his heart beating a little harder in his chest.

“What made him think that?”

Doyle's eyes narrowed and he gave his partner an appraising look. “Probably finding me kissing Tommy Woznicki in the woods.”

He had expected the eyebrows shooting into the hairline and the jaw dropping nearly to the floor; he hadn't expected the blush that was staining Bodie's cheeks. He watched Bodie trying to connect mouth to brain and hoped he wouldn't regret his candour. He wasn't sure which would be worse, Bodie demanding a new partner or Bodie tolerating him but without the casual intimacy they had now.

“You ...” Bodie's voice tailed off as he tried to find the right adjective.

Doyle waited, braced for the worst.

“How...” Bodie stopped again.

“Why...” He frowned across the table at Doyle.

“Why didn't I say anything? You _know_ why. All men are equal, but some are more equal than others. I'll be out on me ear the day Cowley finds out.”

“He won't hear it from me,” said Bodie, gruffly.

“Thanks.”

Bodie drained the rest of his can in a long, aggressive pull and set it down hard next to the now tepid chips. “So, do you want me to come with you to the funeral?”

Doyle smiled, in spite of himself.

“Same brush, Bodie. He'll try to fracture more than your eyelash.”

The uncharacteristic flush was back on Bodie's cheeks and he had apparently found something very interesting on his thumbnails. “Yeah, well. He wouldn't be entirely wrong to throw the brush at me, y'know.”

Doyle's eyes widened and he felt his own mouth fall open.

“And Cowley says I'm not much of an actor,” said Bodie, a more familiar grin replacing the shyness of the moment before. “If only he knew, eh? Well, perhaps not. Like you say, you're expected to be straight as a die in our mob.”

His glance fell on the chips; he grimaced and wrapped up the leftovers. “Let's show your old man what we're made of then. You call the Cow, I'll book a couple of rooms in a local B&B.”

Doyle felt a warmth spread through his chest. “Thanks, mate.”

Bodie directed a sincere look at his partner. “Anytime, sunshine. You should know that by now.”

***

Bodie pulled the car to a halt near the church and turned off the ignition. Doyle sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with his tie.

“You ready?”

Something tightened in Doyle's jaw and he nodded. They climbed out of the car, shrugged into their suit jackets and started walking past the rows of tiny terraced houses towards the back of the sandstone church. Time had blackened its edges, giving it a gothic look. The black clock faces with their gold numerals showed they had five minutes to spare. Doyle vaulted the low dry stone wall into the graveyard and waited for Bodie to follow.

They picked their way among the gravestones towards the main door and joined a shuffling procession of mourners looking for a seat.

Doyle slid into a pew near the back. Bodie followed and sat down next to him, leafing through the hymn book for something to do as his usual time-killers - teasing Doyle and/or eating - were hardly appropriate under the circumstances.

A last handful of mourners hurriedly found their places and the sudden blast of a slightly wobbly organ chord jolted the congregation to attention. The organist continued to meander through an unfamiliar, but suitably funereal, piece of music as the pallbearers began to carry the coffin down the aisle. It was followed by a too-thin woman with familiar green eyes, whose arm was gripped in a fashion that suggested possession more than support, by a short man with the flushed features of a lifelong heavy drinker.

For a moment Bodie thought they would be passed by unnoticed or unrecognised, but as the couple drew level with them the man's head flicked round, his eyes narrowed and his face tightened. The elder Doyle turned away sharply, lips curled, and continued to walk towards the front pew.

Bodie leaned closer to Doyle and whispered in his ear, “Don't think fatted calf is on the menu for you, sunshine.”

Doyle cast a weary look at his partner. “The only thing he'll want to give me is a fat lip,” he replied softly.

They watched as the coffin was placed on its rests and Doyle's parents found their seats. As the vicar took up his position, ready to start the service, Bodie muttered quietly, “Well, I'll try not to shoot him, Ray. But I'm not promising anything.”

***

The service and the interment went without a hitch, though John Doyle had glared at them over the grave even as his father-in-law's coffin was lowered into it and tears slipped down his son's cheeks. As the mourners drifted from the graveside, many apparently pleased to take up the offer of tea and sandwiches at the dead man's nearby home, Bodie watched with hard eyes as Doyle's mother was steered firmly away from her son and towards her father's terraced house. He turned to Doyle, his face asking the question that his mouth didn't need to.

“It would be rude not to,” said Doyle, in a voice that had been run over a whetstone.

Bodie nodded and gestured with his hand. “After you, Angelfish.”

***

Fred Tyler's front room was full of women: ladies of his own generation with cups and saucers perched on their knees; middle-aged women carrying trays of tea, sandwiches, biscuits and cake; and a handful of younger women who didn't seem to know what to do with themselves and so were browsing the Christmas cards still arranged along the mantelpiece. The men had decamped into the back yard, where they smoked and talked under a cold and clear forget-me-not blue sky.

Doyle cast a practised eye over the guests and headed for the stairs. Bodie gifted a beaming smile on a lady with a tray and was rewarded with a slice of chocolate sponge. He took a hearty mouthful and followed Doyle up the stairs, hovering one hand beneath the other to catch stray cake crumbs. As he reached the top step he could see Doyle folded around his mother in the bedroom. He stepped sideways to lean against the wall and wait.

He had barely swallowed the last mouthful of cake when a second man joined him on the small landing. John Doyle reeked of booze and cigarette smoke. He looked past Bodie and stiffened at the tender tableau visible through the half-open bedroom door. He took a step forward but found Bodie blocking his way.

“Get out of my way, boy.”

Doyle reached reflexively for the gun he wasn't carrying at the sound of Bodie's clipped RP reply. He had learned long ago that the nobbier the accent his partner adopted, the greater was the chance of something – furniture, windows, bones – getting broken.

“I won't have a pair of poofs under my roof,” spat John Doyle.

“Good job this isn't your house then,” replied Bodie, with cold cheerfulness.

“It's my wife's house now and that makes it mine. We don't want your sort here. Get out!”

“It's not my house.” Maggie Doyle pulled Bodie aside a little to address her husband. “It's Ray's. Dad left it to him.”

“What?” The Doyle men spoke as one.

“He never forgave you for what you did to Ray. He told me you wouldn't get a penny from him, even over his dead body.”

Bodie muttered to Doyle over his shoulder, “We can thank old Fred for your tightfistedness too, I see," and was rewarded with a kick to the ankle.

“You filthy degenerates,” hissed John and swung a right hook into Bodie's jaw. Bodie drew himself up stiffly, a sneer and a trickle of blood on his lips.

“You didn't want to do that,” he said, pushing Doyle's father back against the wall and pinning him there. “Assaulting a CI5 agent...” he sucked in a little air, like a mechanic surveying a car that won't start and preparing to break the expensive news to its owner. He looked back to his partner. “Don't suppose you brought your cuffs with you?”

***

Doyle emerged from the house in time to see a uniformed constable ducking his father into the back seat of a police car. Bodie was resting on the front wall, neatly coiling up the washing line they had borrowed until more traditional restraints were provided by the local plod.

Across the road, a young girl on roller skates was gingerly pulling herself along a fence, bottom stuck out and feet threatening to escape from underneath her at any moment.

“Hope Father Christmas brings her a crash helmet,” said Bodie, quietly.

Doyle was silent, chewing on his thoughts and his lip.

“Ray?”

Bodie sighed. “Spit it out, sunshine.”

“Wondering if my mum's going to need a crash helmet when they release him.”

Bodie screwed his face up, preparing to confess. “She won't need it for a few days at least. I've told the cops he'll need to come to London for questioning. And what with Christmas Eve tomorrow, he'll be in the cells here for at least three days before he even gets to HQ. I bet Ruth could juggle him around the system for a couple more if needs be...”

Doyle sank on to the wall next to him. “You really are a big softie under all that bravado, aren't you?”

A smug expression blossomed on Bodie's face and they sat quietly, watching the girl wobbling back and forth along the pavement for a moment, until Bodie felt Doyle's body snap upright, and turned to see what the problem was.

“You do realise my father's going to tell them we're queer?”

Fear flashed in Bodie's eyes.

Doyle's mouth twisted into a wretched smile. “Don't worry. I'll take the fall – there's no proof against you, and anyway who'd believe you bat for the other team with your bleedin' harem? You can drag Pamela back from her cream teas to bear witness for you.”

Bodie bit his lip.

“What?”

“Well ...”

Doyle narrowed his eyes. Bodie's accent wandering back to Birkenhead was as familiar a tell as its hop up the ladder to BBC newsreader.

Bodie pulled a face and continued, “... there is no Pamela. Hasn't been anyone in ages.”

“Cowley been putting bromide in your tea?”

Bodie shrugged. “Just haven't met any girls I like lately.”

Doyle raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Far too dangerous. Look, but don't touch is my motto.”

A splutter of laughter escaped Doyle's lips. “Oh yeah? I think that's significantly more honoured in the breach than the observance, don't you?”

Bodie frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a voice from the front door.

“You boys okay?”

Doyle threw a smile at his mother and started walking back to her. “We're fine. It's going to be a few days before he gets out though.” He nodded down the road after the departed police car.

“Good,” she said, “It'll give me longer to get moved in here. If that's alright with you.”

He laughed and kissed her cheek. “We can give you a hand if you like.”

“Aye, you can,” she said with a smile and a nod. “We'll get started as soon as this lot go home.”

***

It was late when they hauled the last suitcase out of the Capri and Doyle carried it upstairs to deposit it in a bedroom.

Bodie's eyes lit up when Maggie produced a shopping bag containing sausage rolls, packets of crisps, a couple of oranges, cans of Coke and two Mars bars.

“Sorry it's not a proper tea,” she said. “Next time you come, I'll do my beef stew and dumplings for you.”

“It's very kind of you,” said Bodie, taking the bag.

“Don't want you fading away on the motorway,” she said.

Bodie ducked his head to press a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks,” he said, “and it was lovely to meet you. I'll, er, wait for Ray in the car.”

She rested her hand gently on his cheek. “You take good care of him for me.”

He gave her one of his softest smiles. “Always.”

“Good lad. And Merry Christmas."

They heard Doyle begin to descend the stairs. Bodie winked at Maggie and made his way to the front door. "Merry Christmas Maggie. And a very happy New Year."

***

“Sorted?”

Doyle pulled the car door shut and sat with a perplexed look on his face.

“Oi. Cloth ears. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just … Mum seems to think you're my boyfriend – what exactly did you say to her?”

Bodie was grateful that in the darkness of the car, Doyle couldn't see the blush burning on his cheeks.

“Nothing!” he protested. “She told me to keep an eye on you – NFM. That's it.”

Doyle screwed his face up. “NFM?”

Bodie grinned. “Normal For Mums. I'm sure she meant as your partner I should make sure you don't get shot. Again.”

“Hmm.”

“Can we go home now?”

Doyle stretched out in the passenger seat. “Hit the road, Jack.”

***

Bodie was pushing the Capri hard down the outside lane of the M1 when Doyle spoke again.

“She said you were a lovely lad.”

“Good taste, your mum.”

“And that she was pleased I'd found somebody nice.”

“You can't blame her for being surprised... Ow!” Bodie rubbed his arm where Doyle had thumped it. “That's no way to treat your boyfriend.”

Doyle opened his mouth to call him a moron, but stopped abruptly and after a moment rested his hand on Bodie's thigh instead and said, “Is that better?”

Bodie's palms were slick on the steering wheel. His mind raced to find the right response – was Doyle joking? He must be, surely – the punchline to the 'look, don't touch' moment, right? But, what if he wasn't? What if he's opening a door? Bodie's chest was so tight he wasn't sure he could breath. He swallowed, though his mouth was dry as a bone, and replied as casually as he could manage, “Yeah. Much.”

He waited for Doyle to get bored of the joke and withdraw his hand, but it rested there, fingers curled gently around the curve of his thigh. Another mile clicked by and Bodie felt Doyle's thumb slide across his trousers to meet his index finger. For a moment there was stillness, then the thumb dropped back and made another slow glide across his leg. Another pause, shorter this time, before the thumb dropped again but this time Doyle didn't repeat the stroke. Instead he gave a gentle squeeze and was rewarded with a tiny squeak.

In the darkness Doyle smiled to himself and slid his hand further round Bodie's thigh, so his little finger brushed his partner's crotch. There was a sharp intake of breath to his right. Doyle scanned ahead and behind. They were now the only vehicle on the road. He quirked his finger against the trouser seam and the warm, firm flesh behind it.

“Jesus, Doyle! Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Nobody's making you do 90 in the outside lane.”

Bodie glared at his passenger, but took his foot off the accelerator and steered the Capri into the inside lane as the needle fell back to a relatively sedate 70mph.

Doyle slid his finger along the seam line again, harder this time, feeling arousal swarming towards his own groin as Bodie groaned and pushed back against him. He moved his hand north and felt his blood rush south when his palm slid over Bodie's hard-on.

He rocked his hand back and forth, letting his palm roll along Bodie's cock. He felt the car slow a little more and watched the needle drop to 60mph.

His fingers found Bodie's belt and unbuckled it, but he struggled one-handed for a moment with the trouser button until Bodie took a hand off the wheel and undid it.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Doyle carefully eased down the zip and manoeuvred his partner's underwear out of the way. Bodie's cock was warm and smooth in his hand as he wrapped his fingers around it and gave a slow, firm pull which drew a moan from Bodie's lips. His hand began to move faster, becoming slicked with pre-cum and as he gently ran his thumb over the head, Bodie swore quietly and pulled on to the hard shoulder.

As the engine died, Doyle surged across the car and took Bodie's mouth in an urgent, needy kiss. One hand buried in Bodie's hair, the other still moving on his cock, Doyle was almost in his partner's lap. Bodie's hands were on Doyle's hips, feverishly pulling at his shirt and moaning into his mouth when he finally made contact with warm skin.

Doyle's hand was moving easily on Bodie's cock now as he slid and twisted his hand over slippy, silken skin. Bodie's breathing hitched once, twice and then escaped in a sigh as he came in Doyle's hand.

They broke off the kiss, resting forehead to forehead, as they got their breath back. After a moment, Doyle pressed a tender kiss to Bodie's lips and struggled back into the passenger seat.

“Where are you going?”

Doyle gave him a look. “Not even you can drive back to London with me in your lap, sunshine.”

“Wasn't thinking about driving yet.”

Bodie leaned across and kissed Doyle hungrily, all the while his fingers making quick work of Doyle's trousers and underwear. He broke off the kiss and brought a finger, wet with pre-cum, up to his lips, licking it salaciously before winking and dropping his mouth to engulf Doyle's cock.

“Christ!”

Bodie rewarded this outburst by running his tongue around the head of Doyle's cock, savouring the tang of the pre-cum. Doyle's hand fell gently on the back of Bodie's head and his fingers buried themselves deep in his hair once more as everything but the sensation of Bodie's hot wet mouth and firm hand fell away. He shut his eyes and let Bodie carry him all the way to the edge. His gasped warning was ignored, Bodie simply sucking harder until Doyle came with a groan. He swallowed all that Doyle had to give before shifting again so he could kiss him, more slowly now - all desire, but no urgency.

Doyle mumbled something against his lips. Bodie pulled back just enough to let him speak. "What?"

"I said, 'Merry Christmas'."

Bodie grinned. "Merry Christmas, Ray. Here's to a very happy new year." He kissed Doyle, still smiling. "Let's go 'ome - I've got some very fine malt whisky we can toast your grandad with."

"Thanks mate." Doyle sighed and started to repair his dishevelment. "Let's get out of here before we're done for gross indecency."

Bodie waggled his eyebrows and leered. "Plans I have for you, sunshine, now that's gross indecency. This was just a breach of the peace."

Doyle rolled his eyes and pushed Bodie back into the driving seat. "I'll breach your bloody peace. Get a move on or we'll miss Father Christmas."

Bodie finished buckling his belt, turned the key in the ignition and started singing, "Show me the way to go home..."

Doyle dropped his hand back on to Bodie's thigh, gave it a pat, and nodded down the M1. "Follow the yellow brick road, Dorothy."

He heard the snort just before Bodie slipped the gearstick into first, lifted his left foot and slammed down his right. The Capri fishtailed back on to the motorway and was soon back doing ninety in the outside lane as Bodie drove as fast as he could towards London, Christmas and the future.


End file.
